


Dance Like Someone is Watching

by nobodyhere



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy/Murphy - Freeform, Dancer Murphy, Dancer/Photographer AU, M/M, Murphamy - Freeform, Photographer Bellamy, murphamy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodyhere/pseuds/nobodyhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A certain ballet dancer with a really nice ass is what it takes to get Bellamy interested in ballet</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Like Someone is Watching

**Author's Note:**

> I am actually a ballerina, so I could make this somewhat accurate, but I'm not in a professional company so I wasn't entirely sure how everything works in the Joffrey Ballet (which is in Chicago in case you were interested). I also changed Murphy's age in this, because a soloist is usually in their 20s and definitely not 17. Explanations for ballet terms at the end! Enjoy!

Sweat. It pours off of his tense muscles, mats his hair, and runs in tiny rivulets down his nose. Murphy wrinkles this sweaty nose thinking of how long it will be until he gets to take a shower. They all need one, preferably cold.

“Is everyone ready? Yes? Ok, break’s over, get ready to take it from the top.”

He knocks back the last of his lukewarm water and walks over to stage right for the third time today, sliding his hand over his hair to keep it away from his face. He sighs. It’s going to be a long rehearsal.

Murphy can’t remember his life without dance. It’s been the only constant in his life of inconsistencies, of disappearing parents and disloyal friends. Ballet is something he clung to when there was nothing else stable in his life to hold on to. It’s an outlet and a challenge at the same time, and Murphy loves every moment of it. He loves the way that it pushes the body to form inhuman shapes, to jump higher than it seemed possible, to make living, breathing art. And it doesn’t involve speaking. Murphy was never good with words. They’re solid ugly things that would never behave the way Murphy wanted them to and got stuck in his throat and on his tongue. But in dance, you don’t have to speak. It isn’t necessary. The body speaks for you, and Murphy was always a little too good at being physical.

Murphy is at the top, or as close as he can get right now. When the company casting came out for their 2015 year, Murphy only had to glance at it once and he was off, smirking and strolling away with confidence pouring off of him. He already knew that he was right up at the top with his name right after the title “Soloist.” And at the young age of 24, he’s now a soloist at the Joffrey Ballet, which is a pretty stunning feat if he does say so himself. When he had returned to his apartment, he pried open some glass of expensive whiskey that was a Christmas gift and poured himself a glass. Or two glasses. Or five, six, eight. All alone in his apartment. But Murphy was happy; he drilled into his own head. He’s happy that he’s a soloist at a professional company at a young age, that there was no one else to challenge his position, that his blackmail and swift fists had made sure of that. Murphy had smirked to himself and just poured himself another glass. He was getting close to the top. He needed this ballet career to work and it wasn’t just for him. Murphy downed the glass and shook his head. It was his mother’s fault that he had become this way, he told himself with his fists clenched. It was his mother.

Murphy now lies on his back on the floor of one of the ballet studios with his hands over his face. He knows it’s making him even more sweaty and gross but he’s too tired to care. Rehearsal was practically over and he’s just praying for it to end as soon as possible so he can go home and fucking crash. He jolts his hands away at the sound of his instructor’s voice.

“Ok dancers, you may be excused! Good effort today, but we still need to work most of Act III! So go get some rest.”

Murphy tiredly hops to his feet and begins to gather his equipment.

“Oh, and don’t forget that the photographers are coming tomorrow so be prepared for that as well!” his teacher reminds as the dancers begin to file out. Murphy groans to himself. Great. Why not add some nosy fucking photographers on top of the pressure he had from his teachers? Perfect! Murphy sighs again as he packs up his bag and grimaces at his rubber band muscles. Eh, maybe one of the photographers would be hot and into him. He can always tell which ones are, since they mainly take pictures of his ass. And Murphy doesn’t blame them. Constant jumping and tights make it look pretty damn good.

\---

Bellamy Blake is definitely not in the mood to deal with ballet dancers. He never is really, but today that is exceptionally true. He can practically scream right now, but he can’t really do that considering the Joffrey is rehearsing Sleeping Beauty in front of him and he’s technically supposed to be taking pictures. Instead he has to text Lincoln and ask him why exactly someone had sent him a picture of his sister hanging upside down from the ceiling of a bar while chugging from a beer keg. Goddammit Lincoln, Bellamy curses in his head. Is it really that hard to keep track of Octavia? He did it his whole life; Lincoln should be able to do it for a couple hours.

“Blake! I’m not paying you to stare at your fucking phone! Do your job!” his employer whispers harshly on Bellamy’s left.

“Sorry, sir, I’ll get on it.” Bellamy sighs and picks up his camera. They are currently on Act I, or The Spell, which Bellamy only knows because he’s seen Sleeping Beauty countless times. He snaps a couple of photos of Aurora’s solo and immediately loses interest. He never really enjoyed watching ballet, which seems strange considering he’s a photographer for a ballet company. It seems repetitive and pointless to him, but Bellamy loves photography and needs the job so he stays quiet and takes pictures. He studies the woman dancing Aurora’s part in front of him to pass the time. She’s blonde, on the smaller side, and moves with a more languid, flowing technique. She’s stunning to watch, even for Bellamy. He takes a couple more pictures when Aurora pricks her finger, but he is still restless. God, these rehearsals last forever.

\---

Murphy is slightly less annoyed with the photographers’ presence considering one of them has got to be the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Murphy has snuck looks at the photographer sitting in the right-hand corner of the studio since he walked into the building looking slightly frazzled, but like, a slightly frazzled god. He stretches his second position a little bit deeper, and tries to at least pretend like he’s paying attention. But, come on. They’re in their second month of rehearsal and if Murphy has to watch Clarke dance as Aurora one more time he will saut de chat right out of this window. So he figures that he doesn’t have pay attention for one rehearsal. The photographer runs his hand through his dark, curly hair, which Murphy figures will occupy his thoughts for at least five minutes. 

\---

The deep notes from the cello and the rich, echoing violins aren’t doing anything to keep Bellamy awake. He runs a hand over his face and blinks hard. He’ll be fine; they’re on the Act III, the last act; he can stay awake. It’s the wedding scene and all of the fairytale characters are performing for Aurora’s wedding, which is Bellamy’s personal least favorite. He never really understood why all of the characters showed up. That never happened in the movie, and Bellamy could care less about tradition. The music for the Sapphire solo ends, so he shakes his head a little to keep alert and then positions the viewer of his camera over his eye. When perky, high-pitched flute notes start to fill the air, Bellamy immediately knows which variation this is. The Bluebird pas de deux is for dancers who are quick and bird-like in the movements, and who can move their feet really, really fast. Bellamy focuses the camera onto the man dancing Prince Florine, who just began to jump and explode off the floor. Wait, not really a man dancing, it’s more like a boy. Bellamy lowers his camera quickly to get a better look at this boy. He’s pale, pretty skinny and thin for a ballet dancer in his opinion, and his angular, sharp face is almost cruel looking. His dancing is pretty stunning considering how young he looks, but it’s almost too fierce and strong for this particular variation. Bellamy watches as the boy runs gracefully over to the woman dancing Bluebird to partner her. He watches the way the boy’s leg muscles move and shift as he jumps and beats his legs together in the air. He stares at his fluid arms, how they carve through the air and flow like, well, wings. The boy grabs onto his partner’s waist as she does multiple pirouettes, and Bellamy notices how precise and careful his movements are, how strong his grip is. Bellamy doesn’t take one picture during the entirety of the pas de deux, as his eyes never leave this boy, up until his final saut de chat off stage as the trumpets flare and he lands cat-like five feet from Bellamy and then it’s over.

 

“Blake! I’m not gonna ask twice! Take some damn photos or you don’t get your next paycheck!” comes the harsh whisper, interrupting Bellamy’s reverie.

 

“Um, yes, yes sir.” He blinks twice, finally tearing his gaze away from the dancer. Dazed and a little flustered, he runs a hand through his hair and distractedly starts to look through the photos he had taken. God, Bellamy really hates ballet dancers. 

\---

Putting on actual clothing feels like a criminal offense right now. He’s pretty sure a sweatshirt isn’t actually supposed to be soaked with sweat. So Murphy continues to towel off, even if the towel is more perspiration than fabric. Oh well, at least the beautiful photographer guy thought his sweaty, pale self was hot. Or maybe he was just trying to stay awake. He did stare kind of intensely, Murphy thinks, who knows if that’s a good thing or not. He throws the disgusting towel into his bag and begins stretch and cool down, even if his mind was burning with the image of those dark eyes watching him. 

 

“Are you meditating there Murphy?” 

Murphy gives an exasperated sigh at the familiar voice from somewhere above him.

“Nah, I’m just trying to avoid seeing your scrawny asses for as long as possible,” he retorts with his eyes still shut. 

“Aw, love you too John,” Jasper replies. “And you’re not too muscular yourself, bird boy." 

“Oh yeah, I’m really feeling the love.” Murphy says, rolling onto his back and gives the two a piercing glare. “Now, don’t you two have to go prank Raven or do something else annoying? Some of us are actually trying to improve. “

Monty gives a short laugh. “Well, not all of us can be a soloist at age 24, sorry.” 

Jasper nods with a mocking pout. “And not all of us can be angsty and isolated too, sorry about that as well.” 

“Go strangle yourself with a Theraband Jasper,” Murphy smiles acidly. 

“Alright, alright, we get the message. You wanna be alone to angst over that photographer, we get it.” Jasper says as the two younger dancers begin to glide out of the dressing room. “Oh, and he’s still out there, if you wanna guys wanna stare intensely into each other’s eyes.”

“Maybe he’ll get a date and be less emo all the time,” Monty comments, sliding out the door with Jasper laughing behind him. Murphy groans loudly and flops back down onto the floor. As much as he doesn’t want to agree with those two morons, they might have a point about that date thing. His life is basically ballet, and that leaves virtually no room for actually having a social life. The dancer pulls himself up to a sitting position and begins to pack up, hoping maybe that this photographer wasn’t creepy and was into him. 

\---

 

Bellamy doesn’t know exactly why he’s still at the Joffrey studio. The rest of the photographers had already left, but Bellamy stayed, offering some weak excuse about wanting to talk to the teacher about the lighting in the dance studio. He’s standing at the end of the hall that leads to the men’s dressing room, and even though he tells himself that he’s not waiting for that pale boy to walk out, he still gets excited every time the door opens. Bellamy rubs at his eyes, his exhale muffled by his hands. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door swing open, and he slumps further against the wall when he hears light footsteps padding towards him. 

“Long day sitting on the ground and pressing a button?” a monotone voice asks, clearly sarcastic and clearly trying to provoke him. Bellamy jerks his head out of his hands, and, of fucking course it’s the boy, glaring at him from underneath his eyebrows. Bellamy starts to retort, but closes his mouth and runs his hand through his hair. 

“Ok, I don’t know what your problem is with me, but yes, it’s been a long day. Do I know you?” he says briskly, trying to keep his voice even. 

“Hmm, from the way you were staring at me during rehearsal I’d say I should be asking you that question.” 

Bellamy clenches his jaw hard and quickly diverts his gaze to the floor. 

“I, ah, I wasn’t staring at you specifically,” he says in a gruff voice. “Um, it’s my job. To watch you guys dance. So I can take pictures.” 

“Ok, so can I see?” 

“See what exactly?”

“These pictures. You know, of me?” 

Bellamy stares back at this arrogant boy’s face. He’s smirking, with his stupidly nice mouth skewed into a knowing smile, which means that Bellamy’s basically fucked, and not in a good way. He begs some higher power to just smite him right now, please. He coughs, averting his gaze down to the dancer’s scuffed boots.

“Um, therearen’tany,” he mumbles, and immediately winces. 

“Excuse me?”

Bellamy sighs, runs his hands over his face, and looks the boy straight in his overbearing, patronizing, eyes that Bellamy wanted to stare into forever. Ok, maybe he did have a problem with staring.

“There aren’t any. I didn’t take any photos of you.” 

For a second, Bellamy thinks that the tension between them would kill him first, before his embarrassment finally did. The dancer looks a little shocked, but composes himself enough to ask, “And why, exactly, are there no photos of me?” 

Fuck you. Fuck. You, Bellamy curses in his head. This little prick knew exactly why there were no goddamn photos of him, the conceited bastard. The photographer sighs defeatedly, standing up straighter so he could salvage some of his dignity. Well, death is inevitable and Bellamy was stupidly attracted to this skinny fucker, so why not. He sighs again. 

“Because you’re unbelievably hot when you’re dancing and I wanted to experience that in real life.” 

\---

Murphy was always good at manipulation. He just needed to understand his victim’s thought process, use some carefully worded phrases, and bam. They were pliant and willing in the palm of his hand. Murphy wasn’t sure if manipulation and being an asshole was going to help him get a date until, 

“And I wanted to experience that in real life.” 

Murphy stops breathing. Well, he sure wasn’t expecting that one. The man stares him right in the eye, breathing a little heavily. Murphy swallows, and for the life of him, he can’t think of anything to say. The photographer lifts his chin, almost as if he’s inviting Murphy to laugh at him, to yell, to be offended. Instead Murphy laughs, amused at how adorable this man was. 

“Well, in that case, hi, I’m Murphy.” He sticks out his hand. The man freezes for a second, caught off guard, but warily reaches for Murphy’s hand to shake it. 

“Um, hi. I’m Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.” 

“Bellamy Blake,” he repeats. “Your name is kinda fun to say.” 

Bellamy half grimaces, half smiles. “Well, your name is kinda weird, Murphy.” 

Murphy winks at this man, Bellamy Blake. “Yeah, don’t wear it out.” 

Bellamy laughs abruptly, even though Murphy thinks that his joke wasn’t that funny. He smiles crookedly back at him. “So, um, you think I’m hot.”

Bellamy groans and covers his face with his hands, which Murphy thinks is kind of a shame. His face is quite nice. 

“You’re never going to forget that, are you?” 

“Nah, it’s way too adorable for me to ever forget,” Murphy grins. 

“Shut up Murphy.” Bellamy grins back. Murphy likes his smile, he likes it a lot in fact. 

“So, um, now that we know each other’s names, do you wanna, like, maybe meet sometime? And like, talk and stuff?” 

“Well, well Murphy, I didn’t think of you as a dating person.” 

“I never said it was gonna be a date.” He smiles at the ground, betraying his harsher words. “I just said that I wanna see more of you and your wonderful compliments.” 

Bellamy scratches his neck. “I don’t know, I’m a pretty busy guy.” 

Murphy smiles mischievously, which disguises how nervous and shaky he actually is. “Too busy for this?” he replies, and just goes for it; kissing Bellamy Blake solidly. The older man freezes for a split second before relaxing into Murphy and returning the kiss, running his hands through Murphy’s hair. He pulls back softly, breaking the kiss, but leaning his forehead against Murphy’s. 

“Eh, I’m still pretty busy,” Bellamy says, breaking the silence. 

“Oh fuck you.” Murphy laughs and kisses Bellamy on the nose before pulling away. He quickly whips out a pen from his bag. 

“Well, when you’re not ‘busy,’” he says sarcastically. “Just text me.” He tugs Bellamy’s hand up and scribbles the numbers onto his skin. “And maybe I can convince you that ballet is actually interesting and a beautiful art form to watch. You know, so you don’t fall asleep next time?”

Bellamy blushes. “Screw you, I was paying attention. And really?” he says, holding up his inked hand. “Are we in a rom com or something?” 

“Or something,” Murphy replies, picking up his bag. “And you so totally were falling asleep until my ass came onto stage.” He begins to strut away down the hall, grinning over his shoulder. Bellamy mumbles something under his breath, causing Murphy to pause at the door. 

“What was that?”

“I said your ego is almost as defined as your ass.” 

Murphy stops, and stares back at Bellamy incredulously. _What the fuck?_ is looping through his head as the photographer walks past him and out the door.

“Next time I better take some pictures.”

**Author's Note:**

> Pas de deux: a dance for two, usually a man and a woman  
> Saut de chat: a type of jump; basically trying to get the splits in the air  
> The Sleeping Beauty ballet uses Tchaikovsky's music & is a lot different than the Disney Movie. Bluebird and Prince Florine are characters that attend Aurora's wedding.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZe0TFU75rI  
> Above is the link to the Royal Ballet's version of Bluebird if you want to imagine Murphy doing it


End file.
